


Sometimes a Backrub is Just a Backrub

by Dangerousnotbroken



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 15:02:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2196258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangerousnotbroken/pseuds/Dangerousnotbroken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean hurts his back on a hunt.  He's a whiny crybaby about it.  Cas takes it upon himself to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes a Backrub is Just a Backrub

            Dean lets himself fall face-first onto the memory foam mattress without even toeing his boots off. His keys are jabbing into his thigh and he thinks for a brief moment about pulling the gun out of his waistband but that would mean reaching his arm behind him and no, he’s not going to do that. He draws a deep breath and cringes. The muscles in his back seize in unison. It’s excruciating. He takes another breath, shallower this time, careful, and he’s able to breathe without feeling like he’s being stabbed. He’s not sure how long he lays there. Dean tries not to move, because every time he does, it hurts. He lies there in motionless silence, and it occurs to him that he should probably take his boots off and go to sleep, but then he would have to move, and this just seems easier.

            “How long have you been laying there, Dean?” comes Cas’s voice from the doorway, and Dean is startled. He twitches, and the muscles in his lower back seize and twinge, and he lets out a strained grunt in lieu of an answer. “Are you injured?” Dean tries to push himself off the bed. He manages to get his hands under him, push up on to his knees, and he’s frozen in pain again.

            “Did something to my back when I hit the wall earlier.” His voice comes out weak and pressed. He’s referring to the hunt they just finished. “I’m getting too old for this shit.” Dean twists himself around carefully and sits on the edge of the bed, trying to keep his body straight, trying not to strain the muscles that are already screaming at him. They’d just come back from tracking a werewolf, cornering it in an alley. It hadn’t been a particularly difficult hunt, and they’d killed the werewolf without a lot of preamble, but just before Sam got off a kill shot with a silver bullet, the thing had thrown Dean. He’d bounced off a concrete wall and landed in an awkward heap on the ground. Ten years ago it wouldn’t have slowed him. Ten years ago, before the first time he’d died, before hell and apocalypses and angels and demons and scars, so many scars. Now though, it was enough. An awkward landing here, an unintentional twist there, and he’s in so much pain he thinks he might actually start whining like a child.

            “Go take a hot shower. It will relax your muscles,” the former angel suggests, and it sounds more like a command. Dean ponders resisting, just for a moment, out of spite. He hates being told what to do. But Cas’s directive made sense, and besides, he’s pretty sure he landed in something awful when he fell in the alleyway. He can smell it on his clothes.

            “Go take a hot shower,” Cas repeats.

            “Yeah alright.” He stands, gingerly, kicking his boots off and dropping his coat on the chair as he leaves the room. He grimaces as he walks, sock-footed down the hallway, and he knows he’s being a big baby. In the bathroom, he lets the shower run until the room is hot and steamy, until the mirror is a white fog and he can’t see his own reflection. He strips, trying not to flinch as he tugs his t-shirt over his head, and as he steps in to the shower, he draws a sharp breath. The water is almost too hot. He cringes as he steps into the spray, letting the scalding water course over his body, stripping away the dirt and soothing away the aches in his muscles. It slicks the hair to his head, clings to his eyelashes. He turns his back to the spray, and Cas is right. It is relaxing. It soothes the sharpest of the aches, warms his frozen muscles and coaxes a sigh out of his lips. He washes, slowly, luxuriating in the heat, letting the soap run in rivulets down his chest. It’s a soothing ritual. The soap is something citrus scented, and he wonders where it came from, because he certainly didn’t buy it and it doesn’t seem like something Sam would buy either. It smells like oranges and grapefruit, and he breathes it in deeply. Maybe it’s Cas’s. The former angel had chosen some odd parts of humanity to embrace, and rejected some others that didn’t make complete sense. He loved red meat. Couldn’t get enough of it, which Dean didn’t take exception to, because it meant there was another fighter in his corner when it came to deciding on dinner. But he still wore that stupid trench-coat everywhere, and he refused to let anyone help him obtain any more normal clothes. When he couldn’t wear his suit because it was dirty, or when Dean badgered him about the need to relax a little, he just stole sweatpants and t-shirts from Dean. He’d embraced the idea of bathing easily enough. Cas had taken to long showers and regular baths. Sometimes he showered twice a day. But he rebelled against sleep as much as possible. He stayed up as late as he could. He’d sit up watching shitty late-night TV for no other reason than it was there, until his eyes slid closed and he slumped on the couch, and yet somehow he was always awake before Dean dragged his own lazy ass out of bed. Dean definitely doesn’t feel heat pooling in his belly at the thought of the former angel, all sleepy eyed and bed-headed, in one of Dean’s own t-shirts. And he definitely, really definitely, doesn’t feel himself harden at the thought of the blue-eyed man reclining on the couch, arms stretching over his head, lifting the hem of his shirt up just enough to reveal a thin strip of his stomach. And when he slides a hand down to caress his own hardness, as the hot water of the shower makes prunes of his fingers and makes his body forget the pains of the earlier day, it isn’t Cas’s hand he imagines grasping him there. He gasps as he comes, spilling over his hand, quick and dirty, and he tells himself it’s for release and relaxation, not for lust and desire. He’s tired enough he almost believes it.

 

            Dean shuffles down the hallway wrapped in a towel. There’s a glass of water and a bottle of pills on his nightstand that he doesn’t remember leaving there. Cas must have brought it. He looks at the bottle, then tips the maximum recommended number of pills and tosses them back without any water. He’s half way through tugging on a fresh pair of boxers when his back twinges again, distorting his face in pain, and he barely gets the shorts over his hips before he’s hobbled back over to the bed and sprawled out on top of the blankets again. Out of the corner of his eye he can see the red numerals of the digital clock. It’s past midnight. Maybe he’ll just sleep like this. He doesn’t need blankets anyway. Dean has almost convinced him self to move, to climb under the blankets and make an attempt at getting comfortable, because he’s certainly not comfortable now, when he hears the door click shut.

            “Sam?” he ventures, unwilling to turn his head, because he knows it will hurt, and it seems like too much effort.

            “Guess again,” comes the reply, and it’s Cas’s voice, that gravely baritone, and Dean knows he means it to be soothing so he lets it be soothing.

            “Did you leave the painkillers for me?” Dean asks, moving nothing but his mouth.

            “Yes. You are still in pain?” He hears Cas moving around in the room, the rustle of fabric.

            “Yeah. The shower helped though.” Dean turns his head to the other side, so he’s looking where he last heard Cas. The angel-turned-hunter is clad in a pair of Dean’s sweatpants and the Led Zeppelin t-shirt he’d taken to stealing lately. Dean’s a little surprised he’s not wearing the trench coat over top. The pants are too loose, and they’re hanging dangerously low on his hip bones. “What are you doing here, Cas?”

            “I dislike seeing you in pain,” Castiel states plainly, like that’s an answer.

            “So again I ask, what are you doing here,” Dean retorts, a bit snippier than he means to. “’cause currently, pain’s where I’m at. You have an inclination to not see that, I’d advise you to be elsewhere.”

            “I would rather do something about it,” Cas says flatly.

            “Did you get your mojo back when I wasn’t looking? I’m just gonna have to heal naturally Cas. It’s pulled muscles. I’ll be ok.”

            “I think you are going to shut up, and you are going to let me help you. Understood?” Dean’s a little startled at how bossy Cas is, but he sighs assent. Resisting would mean moving, and it’s not like Cas can make things any worse, right? Cas moves out of his field of vision. He can hear him moving somewhere on the other side of the room, and he has no idea what to expect. Suddenly, there’s a hand on his back, just above the waistband of his shorts.

            “What are you—“ He starts, but Cas shushes him.

            “You forget, Dean, I know you. I know every inch of you as surely as if I’d built your body with my own hands. I know every fibre of your muscle, and I know how the energy moves through you.” The hand is gone from his back now, and he can feel Cas tugging at the blankets beneath him. It takes a moment, but he snakes the coverings out from under Dean’s legs, though Dean is no help, and he feels just the sheet drawn up over him, just to his hips. It’s smooth and cool and almost weightless against his limbs.

            “You think without my Grace I have no power to heal. But I have hands, and I know how to use them to make you feel good.” If Dean didn’t know better, he’d think the suggestive wording was intentional. No, those thoughts were his own private fantasies. He knew the difference between dreams and reality.   Cas is fiddling with something again, and when the hand returns to his back, there’s something slick and sweet smelling.   Cas’s hands glide over his back, gently spreading the oil across the expanse of his shoulders, the jut of his spine, and down to the small of his back. Cas stops just short of his boxers, where the sheet begins, then sweeps the hands back upwards. His touch is light, gentle, and Dean feels himself relaxing. He thinks, lazily, that this might actually be enjoyable.

            His lower back chooses that moment to twinge again, and he grunts into the pillow as the tension shoots up his spine. Cas lays a flat hand on the small of his back, makes a shushing noise. He presses a bit more firmly, the warmth of his hand soothing, and keeps the pressure there until the tremor subsides. Dean releases a breath he didn’t mean to hold, and he wants to say something in gratitude but the words aren’t there. Cas’s hand is still for another moment, before his other hand is on Dean’s back again, and there’s a bit more pressure this time. His thumbs are pressing into the tense muscles of Dean’s back, but the touch is still deft, soothing. Cas’s hands are roving his back, never pressing too long in one place, unpredictable, and unbidden, he’s reminded of foreplay, of careless hands roving other places. A caress of a cheek, a hand on a hip, just momentarily. He stifles a noise in his throat.

            “Cas? This really isn’t necessary.” He says, more than a little uncomfortable. He’s thought about Cas’s hands on his body before. Not that he’d admit it in the daylight, of course. But it’s not something he’s ever thought to act on, not really, and he sure as hell doesn’t need the awkwardness of a mid-back massage hard-on to explain away.

            “Shut up, Dean.” His hands are on Dean’s shoulders now, gripping them, thumbs digging in to the knots there. He pushes until he finds a tight spot, then slides along the muscle, kneading until the knot releases, pressing and soothing and calming each little sore spot as he goes, and Dean, for all his resistance, melts under Castiel’s touch. “Let me do this for you.”

            “But Cas you really don’t—“

            “Dean, I want to.” Cas brooks no more nonsense, and Dean lets himself be silenced, because Cas’s hands feel so good on his aching body, and if he suffers an embarrassing result, well, he can take care of that after Cas leaves.

            Cas’s thumb finds a particularly tight spot, and he pushes his strength in to it. Dean inhales sharply, because it _hurts_ , but at the same time it feels good, and as Cas drives his hand into the knot, the tension starts to bleed out a little, and he’s sinking a bit further into the mattress, his body is getting heavier. Cas’s hands trace the line of his shoulder blades. They’re strong hands, calloused and worn. He doesn’t resist as Cas’s hands slide lower down his back, pressing into the muscles just above his hips, but he tenses, because that’s where he hurts most. Cas seems to know this, and his touch is careful, considerate. He moves in small circles with his thumbs, his touch warm and comforting. He uses the heel of his hand to drag long strokes along the muscle, and Dean feels himself sigh as the pain is coaxed out of him.

            Dean feels a tiny pang of regret when the hands leave his back, and it’s replaced with confusion as he feels a weight on the bed with him. There’s a knee on either side of his hips, pulling the sheet tight across his hips, and Cas’s hands are on his lower back again, with more pressure now that he has leverage. He’s got the strength of his legs now to add to the strength of his arms, and he’s leaning into each motion. The tension in Dean’s back is abating, slowly, as Cas digs his hands in, kneading, moving tantalizingly close to the curve of his ass. The tease of it is not entirely unwelcome, though the effect it’s having on his dick is undeniable. And he wants to shift his hips, but he’s trapped between Cas’s knees, and if he did it would be obvious. So he stays still and tries to think of something other than the gruff voiced, stubbly, angel turned human perched above his own borderline nudity.

            He feels Cas’s weight shift a little, moving forward, to drag his hands up Dean’s back again, open palms sliding up either side of his spine. As they slide up on to his shoulders, he feels something drag against he swell of his ass and he chokes back a startled noise.

            “Cas?” He ventures, because he’s entirely certain that what he thinks he felt did not happen. He knows better than to confuse reality with porn. Most of the time.

            “I told you Dean, I want this,” Cas’s voice is soothing as he speaks, and his hands move up to work the knots from Dean’s neck. Before Dean can register protest, the hands are gone and Cas is pressing his lips to Dean’s neck. They’re softer than Dean expects, and he panics, because this is the kind of shit that he thinks about in his alone time. It’s not the kind of shit that actually happens. He twists as far as he can to look back at Cas, which isn’t very far, but at the edge of his vision he catches Cas’s eye, and there’s lust in his gaze, unapologetic and unbridled and definitely not imagined and _oh fuck_.

            Now that he has Cas’s eyes, he feels like he can’t look away. He looks at the other man, wondering absently if his own eyes are giving as much away. He gets his answer when Cas leans back down and brushes his lips against Dean’s mouth. The kiss is tentative, like Cas isn’t sure he’ll be kissed back, and Dean realizes he must look hesitant. He tries to will the fear from his eyes, the uncertainty. He’s not afraid of this, he knows, he’s afraid of fucking it up by being over-eager, but there’s no way Cas would know the difference in his eyes. So he struggles to control it, and when Cas’s lips are near his again, he kisses back. There’s a noise in Cas’s throat that’s somewhere between a whimper and a growl, and if he wasn’t hard, trapped between his body and the bed, he would be now.

            The angle of their bodies doesn’t allow for much. He’s twisted as far as he can go, only barely pulling his face away from the mattress, so Cas is really only kissing the side of his mouth. He doesn’t want to break contact though, so he waits until Cas pulls away of his own accord before awkwardly twisting himself around onto his back. He’s looking Cas in the eyes now, fully, and he can see that the blue eyes staring back at him are heavy-lidded and lusty. Cas’s mouth is quirked into a little grin and his face is flushed, and Dean finds his own mouth smiling because _God Damn_ this is hot. He feels like he should say something, and he opens his mouth to speak, but any words he was about to utter are swallowed up as Cas’s mouth crashes into his. There’s lips pressed against lips, warm and inviting, and he darts his tongue out to flick across Cas’s bottom lip, to push at the seam, begging entrance. Cas gives way, letting the kiss deepen, and for a minute or an eternity, Dean’s not sure, they’re lost in the kiss. Dean’s known Castiel for years, in one sense or another, but it feels like he’s learning him all over again, learning the curve of his lips, though he’s stared at that mouth countless times as he watched him speak. The warmth is glorious, the taste of Cas’s mouth is minty like toothpaste, and Dean kisses him deeply, hungrily. He slides a hand up Cas’s arm, eliciting a delicious shiver on the part of the other man, and tangles the fingers in the mess of dark hair on Cas’s head, pulling him closer, preventing escape, though he’s fairly certain Cas has no intention of going anywhere.

Cas’s own hands are on either side of Dean’s shoulders, holding him aloft, leaving precious inches between their bodies. Dean feels the weight shift as Cas removes one of the legs pinning his hips, and he thinks Cas must be leaving, must be deciding this is a mistake. Instead, Cas drags a hand down his chest, across his side, grasping the corner of the sheet and throwing it back, freeing Dean’s trapped legs. The knee is replaced between his thighs this time, the hand on his hip, and Cas lowers his weight across Dean’s body, pressing them together from knees to chest. Cas’s hip presses against his dick, and he groans against Cas’s mouth, tightens his grip on Cas’s hair. He can feel the other man’s hardness trapped between them, just as he felt it drag against his ass only minutes before, and he’s pleased, proud even, because he’s barely touched Cas and he’s already hard as a rock.

Dean pushes his hip up, grinding against Cas, and as much as he’s revelling in the friction it creates between Cas’s thigh and his own dick, the growl in Cas’s throat is its own reward. He feels Cas’s hand slide off his hip, tugging at the waistband of his boxers. He releases his grip on Cas’s hair as he pulls away. Dean looks up at the man perched above him, and he can’t help but feel a kind of reverence as Cas’s long, deft fingers grip the hem of his borrowed t-shirt and drag it upwards, agonizingly slow. He drinks in the sight of the muscular torso revealed before him, slides his hands up Cas’s thighs to grasp his hips. Then the shirt is gone, over Cas’s head and tossed somewhere off into the dark corners of the room. He lets Cas pull the waistband of his boxers down over his hips, lifting his ass to free the fabric. Cas rolls on to his side beside Dean, pushing the shorts further down his legs until Dean can kick them off.

Now he’s laying fully naked and feeling incredibly exposed. Cas glides a hand over Dean’s stomach, down his hip. His hand is still a little slick from the massage oil. He’s dragging his fingers dangerously close to Dean’s achingly hard cock, but Dean bats him away.

“I’m naked. You should be naked too. It’s only fair.” He says, petulantly. Cas obliges with a hungry grin on his face, wolfish and a little predatory, and Dean has to admit he likes it. Just as he likes the look of Cas’s hipbones sticking out above the waistband of the sweatpants, just as he likes the agonizingly slow manner in which Cas removes those pants.

Now he can see all of Castiel, and it’s glorious. The low lamplight casts delicious shadows across his body, highlighting the hard ridges of muscle across his chest, the soft curve of his belly. Cas’s cock is hard against Dean’s leg as he pulls the blue eyed man into another deep kiss. He feels Cas drag a hand across his hip, caress down his thigh. It tickles, and he squirms under the attention. Cas doesn’t let up though. He lets his hand rove over Dean’s body, careless in his exploration. He touches everywhere he can reach. Everywhere, Dean notices, except the one place Dean is desperate to be touched.

Dean’s own hand is on Cas’s hip, his thumb tracing lazy circles, and he doesn’t remember putting it there. He’s so lost in desire that he’s acting on pure instinct. Cas pulls away from the kiss as Dean rolls his hips again, pushing himself against his partner’s hard cock. His face mirrors Dean’s own desire, wanton and needy. His hair is messier than usual, his lips are red and slick with spit. He presses those beautiful lips to Dean’s throat, leaving a trail of soft kisses from his chin down to his collar bone. Dean hums a little, cranes his neck to expose himself more. He revels in the attention. Cas is tender as he places kisses on the hollow at the base of Dean’s throat, on his anti-possession tattoo. He’s gentle as he takes a nipple between his teeth, nips just slightly, and Dean’s breath catches in his throat. He’s affectionate, almost loving, as he glides the palm of his hand over Dean’s erection. There’s still a residue of the massage oil on his hand, and the sensation is intense and overwhelming.

“Fuck, _Cas_ ,” he hears himself groan, and there’s a little laugh from the other man, as he slides his hand up and down, his thumb grazing the tip.

“I told you Dean, I know how to use my hands to make you feel good. You just have to let me.” And then his tongue is invading Dean’s mouth again. The minty taste is fading and he’s learning the taste of Cas’s mouth, grinding his hip against Cas’s dick, grasping at Cas’s shoulders, his face, his hair as Cas draws needy moans from his lover’s throat.

Dean loses himself in the kiss. He bites at Cas’s lower lip, kisses him hungrily. Dean lets himself give in completely to the heated desire that’s coursing through him. There’s no point in denying it, he wants this, wants every second of it. Cas kisses him until he’s breathless, panting, and his head is swimming. Then, unexpectedly, Cas’s mouth is gone again, and he’s tracing a languid path down Dean’s chest with his lips. Dean’s pretty sure he knows where Cas is going. The anticipation is driving him wild. Still, Cas takes his time, his hands caressing Dean’s sides, his lips and tongue finding all the most sensitive spots on his torso, and Dean thinks he might explode by the time he feels Cas’s tongue flick across the head of his cock.

“Is this ok?” Cas asks, and he’s hovering over Dean, waiting for permission before going any further. Dean is suddenly reminded that there was a moment he was worried that _he_ would ruin this by being too eager, and here’s Cas, asking permission to suck his dick.

“Holy fuck Cas! Yes! Jesus…” and he trails off as Cas takes Dean’s length in his mouth, his tongue pressing against the underside. Dean can’t help the filthy moan that escapes his lips, doesn’t even try. All of Cas’s attention is focused on Dean’s cock. His hand is wrapped around Dean’s shaft, working in time with his mouth. Cas swirls his tongue, and Dean cries out “Fuck!” Cas twists his wrist, slides his head down and takes Dean as deep as he can, and Dean loses the ability to form words.

Cas finds a rhythm, hands and mouth working in tandem. Dean props himself up on his elbows, because he wants to see this, wants to drink Cas in, wants to watch every second of the dark haired man bobbing up and down on his cock. The sounds Cas’s mouth is making are just plain filthy. Dean can tell he’s getting close, can feel the telltale surge building in the core of him. “Casssss,” he groans, tangling the fingers of one hand in Cas’s hair. He fights the urge to rock his hips up, because what Cas is doing feels so good, so damn good, he doesn’t feel right to interfere.

Cas makes a low hum deep in his throat, and Dean thinks it might be the thing that does him in. But then, as he’s teetering on the brink, Cas looks up at him, fixes him with those sparkling blue eyes, and he’s gone. He hears his own voice crying out somewhere in the distance as he comes. His grip on Cas’s hair is brutally tight, but those eyes, God, those eyes, he was drowning in them, and he couldn’t bring himself to let go. Dean lets himself ride the waves of it as Cas swallows him down. He’s barely come down from his high, barely settled his breathing, and Cas is climbing back up, trapping him in a rough, passionate kiss. He tastes himself on Cas’s lips, and in another time he might be so very weirded out by that, but he’s not. It’s kinda hot. He can tell from Cas’s feverish kisses, from the way he’s grinding against Dean’s leg, that he’s close to coming as well, and _oh fuck_ does he want to see what he looks like when he falls apart.

Dean shifts his weight and rolls Cas over on to his back, not slowing the kiss, not pulling away for a second, and sneaks a hand between their bodies to trap Cas’s cock. Cas lets out a whine as soon as Dean touches him, his eyes flying open and Dean thinks he’s a little startled. Dean locks eyes with him, blues to greens, and pulls away from the kiss to smile at him, a teasing, cocky grin and he tells him,

“It’s my turn to make you feel good.”

Cas doesn’t last long. He’s already so wound up, so close to the edge just from getting Dean off, that it doesn’t take much. Dean treats Cas’s cock like he would his own, does all the things he’d do to himself. He flicks his thumb over the head with each stroke, twists his wrist in the same way he prefers, and before long, Cas is coming in his fist, coming undone beneath him. He’s absolutely gorgeous when he lets go, his eyes wide and wild with lust, his mouth hanging open in a silent howl. Dean guides him through the orgasm, kissing his face, his neck, his lips, until Cas softens in his hand. They lie there, silent and sated, until the sweat on their bodies begins to cool in the still air of the bedroom. Dean has no idea how long they’re quiet, comfortable in each other’s presence before he speaks.

“I don’t know if that’s what you had planned when you came in here, but my back doesn’t hurt anymore.” Cas laughs, rolls onto his side and wraps an arm around Dean’s waist.

“The back massage was a diversion. I’ve been looking for an excuse to get in to your bed since the day I fell.”


End file.
